Devil's Plaything
by MusketeerAdventure
Summary: Milady reminisces about the past; Constance recaptures her independence; d'Artagnan puts his hands to good use and in this final chapter: Athos shows tremendous restraint and with the help of his brothers finds peace in idleness. This is a multi-part entry for the Fete de Mousquetaires March challenge, with the theme of 'Idle Hands'.
1. Chapter 1

Devil's Plaything

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: An idle moment of respite leaves time to reminisce about the past; and proves fortuitous to a wolf in sheep's clothing. This is an entry for the Fete de Mousquetaires March challenge, with the theme of "Idle Hands".

* * *

Awareness came slow – muddled with thoughts of deceit; flight; rescue – and of being lost in a piercing green gaze of bittersweet memories. The decadence of silk sheets, soothingly caressing her skin felt foreign and out of place next to such bleak dreams of grime; depravity; and then – maybe regret.

In that surreal space between sleep and wakefulness – the look on his face conjured up on one hand a feeling of smug, delighted mirth; and on the other, such sadness, that bordered on despair - almost.

When she pried open her eyes, the remnants of gunshots, men screaming for their lives – drifted away and slid beneath the shutters – where streams of daylight filtered through.

She frowned, put the near death experience at Evreux out of her mind and placed it alongside those many other moments in her life. Moments that she chose to suppress and were buried beneath a cool facade; later to be summoned forth as incentive to drive her forward. She stretched her limbs – with arms overhead, until her shoulders popped; knees flexed and toes tingled with delight.

Smiling, she tousled her dark tangled mass of hair with a certain amount of forceful triumph. Today was another wonderful day. A day filled with new possibilities. Rolling to her side, she snuggled down deep into the soft feather mattress. She hugged the pillow close to her breasts and pressed her smile into its folds. Landing on her feet was hard business – but she had done it…..again.

By the slant of the sun's rays that slipped through the cracks into the room – noon had come and gone. To sleep this late was a luxury. To be unhurried; left alone to her own devices – was a rarity to covet. She would treasure this moment for as long as it would last. For in her experience – good fortune such as this never lasted long.

Groaning with pleasure, content to lay – still; she relished this time to herself. How wonderful to hear the workings of the palace go on outside her door and know that all she was meant to accomplish this day was to lay idle and wait for her King.

To only wonder – what would please him; make him smile; forget his wife and erase the troubles of state from his mind. She sighed deeply, twirled a strand of hair about her finger; whispered cheekily to herself, "Consider only him"; and laughed.

To be Idle; silent or tranquil had never been a strength of hers.

As a child, she was put to work early begging in the streets; smiling for coin; picking pockets or stealing food from the market. There was never time to lie late in bed; to play with other children or to day dream of another way of life.

There was only living – surviving – from day to day; hour by hour. Quiet moments were relegated to deep, dreamless sleep of the exhausted. Then it would all begin again.

Peering over the warmth of her blanket, she watched with aloof contempt as servants filed into the room; drew the bath – brought in bucket after bucket of hot, steaming water. Young girls, in crisp clean uniforms carried in her meal on silver trays and set the table. Adolescent, freckle faced boys stoked the fire in the hearth.

After some moments of furious flutter – they all backed out of the room; reluctantly curtsied or bowed at the waist and ground out "Milady" with forced respect – before softly closing the door behind them. She could practically hear their eyes rolling with disdain as they scurried out in the hallway to their next chore.

She knew what they said of her – how they spit out the side of their mouths after speaking her name. Out of earshot, but through the grapevine, she knew they hissed words like - "lazy"; "idle", "worthless" and "snake" to describe her.

She raised an eyebrow and chuckled at their downstairs antics. Their reaction to her brought back memories of her leisurely days at the de le Fere estate before it all went to hell. Those were the days when she had want for nothing – had put the hardships of her childhood and her time at the convent behind her.

Behind her, where the nuns had swept her from the streets and trained her up in the art of cooking; cleaning; mending; scrubbing and washing until her hands cracked red and raw. There was never an idle moment such as this among the good nuns of the Order of St. Benedict. If so, the quiet hours were filled with learning; reading; or on bended knees, praying reverently to a God who had abandoned her long ago.

Pushing up from feathered pillows – she swung the blanket aside and stretched bare arms above her head and took in the opulence around her. Gilded mirrors – ornate door handles; sheer canopies; priceless vases; vintage chairs – all glared back at her – the pretender.

She yawned and hopped from the bed – landing lightly on plush throw rugs that protected her unslippered feet from the cold marble floors. Tip toeing toward the tub, she sat on the floor and skimmed her fingers over warm delicately scented water and thought again of those restful days, when she and her husband would lay silent in a tub such as this one – in each other's arms; toes shriveled white and pale from the cooling water.

In those days, when she was idle – all she would do to keep busy was to collect forget me nots; twine them together; strewn them about the estate, wear them around her neck and in her hair.

Unlike Catherine, she could not paint; or draw to pass the time – but instead would study the form of her husband in bed; in fields; amongst the hay, and trace with her finger the crease at his brow; his temple; his jawline – then the perfect curvature of his lips. Her heart skipped a beat as she remembered how very beautiful he was. How his body seemed to her – a work of art to explore and admire.

Hours would go by before they felt the pull of desire – so enthralled she would be by the penetrating green of his eyes; the curl of hair at the nape of his neck; the thickness of his lashes; the strength of his nose. In this moment she could actually feel the tone of his arms, chest – the slimness of his hips.

Milady stood abruptly to her feet – as the heat on her cheeks traveled hot to her neck. She laid her hand there to cool the surprising flush and breathed deep to help push down the thought of him. Absently she stroked the circular scar beneath her fingers and a jolt of adrenaline shot through her senses bringing her back to the present. Stunned, she pulled her hand away as if burned.

Quickly, she removed her night gown, stepped into the tub; and submerged down beneath the warm water.

She would do this – banish him, his face – his body; his touch; those eyes from her mind. She held her breath and tried to let him go.

When she came up and gulped in life giving air – the world was clear to her again. Richelieu was dead; Gus was dead; Anne and Olivier were dead – Athos was…..

The tepid water sent a shiver down her spine. A sense of foreboding gripped her heart; and she trembled with apprehension. The unknown of the future weighed heavy on her chest. Pushing wet ringlets from her forehead – she sighed with exasperation; and slapped down on the water with such vigor that it splashed out and cascaded onto the floor.

Was she not the mistress of the King of France? Had she not survived humiliation and certain death at the hands of first Richelieu – then her husband, again? Good fortune had come her way; and visiting the past was not a useful way to spend these precious idle moments.

* * *

After putting on her undergarments; eating her meal; having her hair properly coiffed – Milady wandered the room bored beyond belief. She sat with resounding purpose down in a plush velvet chair and wondered what to do with herself.

Shopping was an option, with the generous stipend from his Majesty – but just how much shopping could one do? She had all the clothes, hats, gloves, shoes any one person could possibly want or need.

Perhaps she could find amusement in bullying around a servant; or making the Queen feel uncomfortable in her own home; or just produce some gossip to torture one of these pathetic hangers on that populated the palace.

How wearisome it was to have nothing to occupy her mind. She stood to her feet, pattered to the window and threw open the shutters. Sunshine beat down on her and she covered her eyes to adjust to the blinding brightness.

Smiling with contentment, she took in a breath of cool fresh air and filled her lungs to capacity. When she could see plain again – there below stood Rochefort – watching her, as if he'd been waiting all morning to catch a glimpse of her at this very window.

She leaned over the sill; stared straight into his dead unblinking eyes and knew he wanted something untoward from her. He had been lauding his authority over her for some time now and thought himself above her. Richelieu had taught her much. Here below stood a lesson in treachery she had paid heed to.

The devil himself smiled a malevolent grin and waved for her to come join him in the garden.

So – she surmised – her idle moment was over; her respite…but a second. Rochefort had some chore she dare not refuse. There must be some nefarious errand that only her special talents could fulfill that needed executing. That he must have something to force her cooperation was evident.

The sisters were right all along – idle hands were the devil's playthings; and here he was, ready to pull the strings.

Milady turned away from the window deep in thought. She would prepare herself for this audience with the wolf in sheep's clothing. Here was the wolf – the devil himself – that hid himself among the ordinary; that would try and take what luck she had fostered. She would attempt to match his cunning and hope to turn the tide.

Clenching fists at her sides; she readied her armor and summoned up her resolve to survive. After all her battles and near death escapes, she was determined that he would not be the one to lead her to complete ruin.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this entry to the Fete de Mousquetaires March challenge. Please let me know what you think! If you would like to participate, please go to the Musketeers Forum page titled Fete de Mousquetaires to learn more about the rules and how to enter.


	2. Chapter 2

Devil's Plaything

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Idleness was no longer an option if she wanted to capture her independence and rewrite her future. This is an entry for the Fete de Mousquetaires March challenge, with the theme of "Idle Hands".

* * *

Chapter Two: Seize the Moment

It sang to her – just as he said it would.

Pure notes of ecstasy that had her heart soaring. Subtle tones only she could hear, soaring to such wonderful heights that left her floating above this grove bathed in sunlight, the trees, Paris; and her life. Floating to where she could reach out to the sky and embrace all manner of extraordinary possibilities.

This instrument she wielded was a Godsend. One she would not release – never give up. It was a gift that kept idleness along with insanity at bay.

She unsheathed the rapier from the scabbard at her side; closed her eyes and sighed as the comforting weight gave balance to her swirling thoughts. This deadly instrument had become an integral part of her life. This secret joy of power, and synchronized dance was a blissful, splendid wonder to her.

When she had asked to learn this art, it had not occurred to her that it would consume every idle moment. So much so that its endeavor left little time to indulge in dark thoughts of pettiness or devilish mischief to plot against her husband.

This powerful gift of independence d'Artagnan had given her was now entrenched in her everyday life and she loved him the more for it.

A seed had been planted; nurtured these many months and today she was to be tested on her new found knowledge. In order to ready herself, she had become inventive in preparation. Any idle moment, no matter how brief – she squeezed in a way to practice.

Footwork – while hanging out the laundry; thrusts – after mopping the floor; defense – with snapped peas; attack – between stirring and tasting the stew.

Whenever the hopeless, unhappiness of her situation encroached – she would fight it back with the sword, and there along the edges of its darkness – was the light that was d'Artagnan; and her newly re-emerged confidence. Found again beneath years of inertia, laying idle – waiting to re-materialize.

She paced a bit in circles, crisscrossing the rapier before her – listening to its note of promised freedom. Her ponytail bounced in time with the rhythm as well as her steps. She was eager to get started; her heart racing in anticipation. Skirts lifted above her knees and tied between her legs gave her a sense of liberation – so she took a wider stance, then lunged low – laughing as she stretched out her arm in attack.

The rapier rang true, and left her wanting for battle - battle against inequality; isolation; and forbidden desires.

She stood tall then, spun in a circle to see who may be watching and hoped no one happened by to witness her in such an unconventional manner. Word would then undoubtedly find its way to Bonacieux. Her lessons in swordplay, alone with a musketeer, away from her home would be hard to explain. But no matter – this was her solace, and he would not take it from her.

Bonacieux's ire of late was the usual. His attitude encompassed weariness with life and he passed that on to her. His cutting words, disdain, and lack of respect a norm she only just realized had been a part of their marriage all along – only just noticing now when she saw what respect; attentiveness and care looked like through d'Artagnan's eyes and considerate actions.

In that house – under Bonacieux's suspicious watchful nature, she felt trapped – as if she were suffocating under water. She felt as if her limbs were heavy; her body mired in quicksand and her mind bleary with mundane and sameness.

As he was so proud of pronouncing - his home, his way, his decisions. Such dictates and his unbearable expectations were all sucking the life out of her.

In quiet moments with her chores complete; hands idle; and the day hollow – she feared – if not for this, she would do something reckless. Go down a path of no return; to be sent away, ostracized, and condemned for willfulness and disobedience. Bonacieux was killing her spirit bit by bit; each day chipping away at her soul, her dreams of adventure – stomping her happiness into the ground. Surely, the devil waited for her misstep; ready to bring her low and play havoc with her future.

So she would ward him off – keep herself busy – in mind and body.

Twisting her wrist, the rapier twirled, sliced in the air and its tune settled her nerves. She automatically danced the routine of attack d'Artagnan had taught her, and felt a trickle of sweat course its way down the side of her face, her neck and tickle her spine.

As her cheeks flushed pink and her body temperature rose, she hardly registered it. The exertion felt wonderful and relieved the heaviness about her body and her heart.

This is what freedom was meant to feel like. To be herself; strong – with thoughts, opinions, wants and desires. The sweat on her face, the strength in her arms, and tension in her legs all meant that as with her baking; sewing; or laundry – she was doing it right.

The effort she put into this would come out just as perfect as her apple tart – sweet and mouthwatering; as pristine as her whitest of sheets; and as straight as a stitch that showed no loop.

As she had become a master at homemaking; she would become a master at this.

Crashing through the trees d'Artagnan moved swiftly toward her – a smile on his lips captured in his gaze. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched him saunter over; and thought how handsome, how lithe, how good a person he was. A musketeer he would be – it was in reach. She could see it happening for him – just as he saw; really saw who she was.

"Constance, you are magnificent!" he exclaimed. "I watched from the trees. Your technique is as good as any man's."

Blushing at the sincerity of his compliment, Constance sheathed her rapier, placed hands on her hips and smiled back – breathing hard. Her sweaty bangs clung curled and sticky to her forehead and she pushed them back. "You honor me good sir; and you are of course a wonderful teacher. But I still have a ways to go."

Constance grinned, and knew she flirted, knew he was attracted to her; could still feel the press of his lips from their very first encounter – but did not care. In this moment – her life was well – the dangerous hint of this meeting a non-factor. In this moment – she was free to do and say as she pleased.

d'Artagnan nodded with good humor; bowed low at the waist, stood and pulled out his own weapon with a flourish. "Then let us begin Madame", he announced, bringing his sword up to the forefront then swishing it down toward the ground in one fluid motion.

He raised an eyebrow, channeled his best Athos imitation, and gave her his full attention; took his stance and stated, "En garde!"

Constance mimicked his movements, took a defensive stance, and countered, "I'm ready". Metal met metal and the dance began.

As she parried; lunged; attacked and defended – all of her worries fell to the wayside. The demands of her marriage and social niceties lifted from her shoulders. No longer would she sit idle; defenseless – not in control of her own mind, believing that making a decision; dreaming or wanting more of life was beyond her. Here was the first step – and she would seize the moment.

* * *

Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed this second chapter for the entry to the Fete de Mousquetaires March challenge. Please let me know what you think! Reviews are most welcome! If you would like to participate, please go to the Musketeers Forum page titled Fete de Mousquetaires to learn more about the rules and how to enter. I felt a pull from Constance to add this; and hope it does justice to the theme.


	3. Chapter 3

Devil's Plaything

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: d'Artagnan puts his hands to good use as he discovers a hidden talent in his idle time without the Inseparables. This is an entry for the Fete de Mousquetaires March challenge, with the theme of "Idle Hands".

* * *

Chapter Three: Hidden Talent

Exasperation did not quite describe his true emotion. Perhaps it was more frustration – or weariness; most likely annoyance…no, he mused inwardly, it was more like resignation.

Lifting his gaze from the cluttered desk littered with paperwork – strewn haphazardly from one end to another he sighed heavily with…..resignation. His head was pounding, his neck strained tight with tension and his eyes burned from lack of badly needed sleep.

The noise beyond the closed door of his office clattered with a familiar steady beat of garrison life. Those daily rhythms of clashing swords; bellowed voices; and retorts of musket fire, were usually a balm to his many worries. Now that hodgepodge of sound only served to rattle around his aching head and set his nerves on edge.

The paperwork before him needed to get done if the men were to be paid; food to be procured; new weapons to be added to the arsenal – horse flesh to be purchased. To keep this place running was a monumental task. One in which he needed no distractions to keep him from doing the job at hand.

But yet – there he stood – a distraction beyond distractions.

Treville leaned back in his chair, stared up into the brown eyes of the young man before him and felt the throb at his temple beat in time with his headache. To keep this boy out of trouble was more than monumental. It was almost impossible. He was resigned to that fact now and needed a quick resolution.

Rubbing at the vein pulsating behind his left ear, he watched as d'Artagnan shifted from foot to foot in front of him – his brow creased; a frown on his lips – holding his arm tight where a makeshift bandage had been tied by one of his fellow musketeers – a small splotch of blood seeping through.

He shook his head and pressed sweaty palms to the top of his desk, feeling the papers there crinkle beneath his hands. How would he explain this injury, however slight, to Athos? d'Artagnan was to be sick in bed – relegated to his room – not to leave unless the barracks were burning to the ground around him.

He had heard the words of promise; seen the doe eyes himself as he gave his word that he would rest, lay idle, let Serge and a garrison teaming with musketeers take care of him until their return. "Not to worry – I'll be fine." Those words he had heard d'Artagnan utter but two days ago – and believed him.

However, here the boy stood now – annoyed; restless and hurt. What was he to do with him?

Athos, Porthos, and Aramis had been gone only two days. Two days – and already d'Artagnan was before him – bleeding at the forearm, and swaying on his feet. Athos had been reluctant to leave him behind sick with fever and chills – but understood his duty. Aramis had assured him, a cold it was now – and would remain so if he stayed behind, rested, drank the broth Serge would offer and did not over exert himself in the elements. And so the three left him behind in the care of those here at the garrison – sure no harm would come to him.

Treville stood to his feet – rounded the desk and leaned on the edge to survey the challenge before him. He crossed his arms about his chest and decided the best course of action was to be silent; and see if d'Artagnan would explain himself without too much prompting. He witnessed Athos work this miracle on many occasions.

Facing the ire of Athos was something he did not relish if d'Artagnan were to come down with pneumonia; infection or worse. Something had to be done.

So he waited a moment; and watched the boy flush red about his neck and cheeks. He waited a few moments more as d'Artagnan's expression changed from an annoyed frown to contrite unease. Then finally he spoke up unable to abide the silence any longer. His voice hoarse and scratchy with congestion admitted, "I could not stand being cooped up in that room another second."

He paused then sputtered out, "The air was too stuffy and I couldn't catch my breath."

Treville lifted his eyebrow.

"I thought to take a brief walk, and get some fresh air", d'Artagnan quickly continued. "But Paul called out to me and asked for a sparring partner."

d'Artagnan lowered his head, and hair fell over his face to hide his contrition. "I couldn't refuse. He needs a lot of work you know."

Treville took note of the scabbard and sword at d'Artagnan's side, and both eyebrows climbed up into his hairline. How convenient it was that he was ready to spar at a moment's notice. d'Artagnan coughed into his elbow deep and wet. When after some moments the fit passed, he stood tall and took several deep breaths to steady his lungs.

Concerned, Treville grabbed him by the shoulders and led him to sit in a nearby chair. d'Artagnan hissed with pain and pulled his arm close in toward his body. Treville stood over him and silently commanded that he look up at him. d'Artagnan acquiesced, and gazed up at his Captain. "Things didn't go so well", he confessed; and rubbed absently at his arm.

As Treville reached to look beneath the tied off scarf, d'Artagnan pulled away and added, "It's only a scratch."

Treville retreated and with measured step returned to sit on the edge of his desk. "A scratch you say." D'Artagnan nodded firmly with assurance, "Yes sir – only a scratch."

Treville studied the boy closely and pointed at his wrapped arm. "Tell me d'Artagnan – how do you propose to explain this to your friends – who you have promised to be still and rest." d'Artagnan shrugged, winced and sighed, "They need not find out?"

Treville took a seat back behind his desk at a complete loss. Clearly, d'Artagnan was not one to be idle. If he was not given some freedoms, the boy would end up doing something foolish and he could not face the three musketeers if something untoward or dire should happen while they were away.

"So then", he offered, "what is it you would like to do, if not resting to regain your strength?"

d'Artagnan piped out without hesitation, "Practice?"

Treville pointed once again to the blood stained scarf, and frowned.

d'Artagnan paused and held his arm tight, "Perhaps shoot?"

Treville nodded and proposed, "Hold out your hand for me." d'Artagnan held out the hand of his uninjured arm and was dismayed to see it shaking of its own accord – coughed and then closed it into a tight fist of frustration.

d'Artagnan then perked up and sat straight – a pleading look in his eyes. "Maybe ride?" but a coughing fit took hold at that moment marring his entreaty.

When the strangle hold finally let him loose – he looked over the table at Treville in defeat. "If you make me stay trapped in that room Captain with nothing to do, I will….."

Treville completed the thought, "…..end up as the devil's plaything?"

d'Artagnan looked to his captain with a blank expression. "Idle hands…." Treville attempted to explain. When he saw no understanding there, he waved his hand to dismiss the idea. But in that moment had come up with a solution.

"Be at muster in the morning. I will assign you a task to keep you from going….."

"…..insane sir." d'Artagnan leapt to his feet with a fierce grin that brought dimples to his cheeks; and relief to Treville. No longer sullen, d'Artagnan surged toward the door. "I'll do whatever you say Captain – as long as I can get out of that room."

Treville gestured with a wave. "You are dismissed d'Artagnan. Get that scratch tended to; go eat a meal, then sleep. You will have work tomorrow."

* * *

It had been a long day – but a good one. Sitting now with Jacques among the hay, surrounded by a stable full of horses – now fed and brushed down for the evening made him feel a contented kind of tired.

When at first the Captain assigned this duty, he thought himself punished for reneging on his promise to rest – but now he saw the wisdom of it.

The steady stream of work throughout the day kept him busy, without being too strenuous; and Jacques seemed to not mind the extra hand. And now they sat together – in companionable silence as the sun began its slow descent into early evening.

d'Artagnan took a deep full breath. And thought a tickle still resided there at the back of his throat, it no longer hurt to swallow and his chest expanded with welcome ease without constricting into a fit of unrestrained coughing. He felt pretty good – his cold perhaps coming to an end. Good enough actually to maybe go and …

His thoughts were interrupted as Jacques reached down by his feet and pulled out a hefty piece of wood from the limb of a tree; a small knife; then began to whittle away at the loose bark.

d'Artagnan smiled and nodded in Jacques' direction. "My father use to whittle", he said wistfully – recalling many evenings watching him fashion a toy or some small trinket.

Jacques expertly cut away at the limb. "And you?" he inquired, his blond curls bouncing with each stroke.

"No, he tried to teach me; but I just liked watching really. I had no imagination for it and couldn't sit still long enough to finish anything."

Jacques eyed him with some mirth. "Would you like to try now? I see you are anxious to do something", he added as he inclined his head at d'Artagnan wringing his hands – ready for action. "Our day is pretty much done, and this helps me settle."

d'Artagnan chuckled and rubbed his hands along his thighs. Jacques smiled and held out the limb – along with his knife. "I have another", he reassured.

d'Artagnan reached out and accepted the offer. "Sure – okay", he said and felt the weight of the limb. "What should I make?"

Jacques shrugged his shoulders and his blue eyes met d'Artagnan's with a serious expression of thought. "I like to make horses, saddles – things I see here around me. These things bring me comfort."

d'Artagnan frowned and remembered how his father would hold the wood in his hands and slowly turn it around and around – shaving the bark away until smoothness met his caress. Suddenly, as if by magic, the knife would pare away pieces of access wood, until bit by bit there before his eyes was their barn – Buttercup – or the tree where he would spend hours daydreaming.

So he did the same, and began.

* * *

For the rest of the week, his days on stable duty remained the same and he enjoyed helping Jacques with whatever was needed. Slowly, but surely, his strength returned; his cough an intermittent thing; his throat no longer raw and his hands held true and steady.

And though he probably could have sparred; practiced his shooting or even done a little hand to hand; he chose to continue with this daily routine. Jacques was good company – only a few years younger; and they shared many interest; one such interest, being the musketeers.

Each evening they sat quiet into the night, the soft glow of fire by lantern – with wood and knife in hand – creating "magic". Only the shifting of horseflesh, and the quiet coming and goings of musketeers helped to mark the time and let them know when to ready for bed.

With the wood steady in his grasp – d'Artagnan felt of a sense of his father and now understood the joy he must have felt at bringing a stick of wood to life. He only wished he had shown more interest in the past; shared this one thing that brought his father pleasure.

He then looked fondly down at his latest creation and held it out for Jacques to critique through the orange of lantern light. The boy grinned from ear to ear – "That's pretty good. I think he'll like it."

d'Artagnan nodded back with some unease; continued with a few finishing touches and mumbled softly, "I hope so."

* * *

Now that the sun had set and only stars illuminated the night sky, d'Artagnan laid his head to pillow, looked proudly at his small works of art displayed on the side table beside his pallet, and knew that tomorrow his brothers were due home.

He was excited to see them, and hear tales of their mission. He could hardly wait for Porthos to give a spellbinding oration of storytelling. No matter how mundane; slow or routine things were, Porthos found a way to make things interesting.

He missed them greatly, and now that his illness was in the past – was happy to know he would be joining their ranks once again. When he finally drifted off to get some needed sleep – his mind fell on sparring with Athos in the yard; Aramis and Porthos yelling out boisterous encouragement to him, and his father whittling before the hearth.

Sometime later in the night, d'Artagnan shifted from his back to his side; opened his eyes sleepily and noticed light in the room, chasing shadows into the corners. He blinked in confusion, for he had no memory of leaving the candle burning.

Lifting himself onto his elbows – he was surprised to see Athos seated in the lone chair, close to his pallet; dusty – elbows at his knees; cording fingers through stringy, dirty hair.

He flopped back down to his pillow; smiled and in a voice hoarse with sleep, whispered, "You are home."

Athos swiped hands wearily over his face; pulled down on his beard, and peered down at d'Artagnan – who stared up at him with a grin and slow blinking eyelids – sleep pulling him under even as he spoke.

Athos reached out, and fingered the red, but healing scar across his forearm. d'Artagnan yawned, "It is only a scratch."

Athos nodded, placed his palm across the boy's forehead and felt only the warmth of sleep. Cupping his neck, he could tell that the fever which plagued him on their departure was gone; and relief loosed the tightness across his chest. Lifting the blanket to cover the newly acquired scar, Athos had known to lie idle while they were away would be difficult for d'Artagnan and guessed there would be some mark to show for his lack of restraint.

When he leaned back in the chair – there on the side table, beneath the glow of the candle were three wooden figurines. He lifted the cross with care and heard d'Artagnan say softly, "For Aramis." Next he spied two small die, which sat side by side. "For Porthos", he murmured. Lastly, he lifted the small engraved fleur-de-lis and heard the barely audible sigh, "For you. Duty, honor, country", and watched as d'Artagnan turned away, burrowed deeper into his blanket and drift down once again into sleep.

Athos fingered the gift; squeezed it tight in his fist, and knew he would cherish it always. Who knew d'Artagnan had such a talent. Leaning forward, he deftly blew out the candle, and strode quietly from the room to seek out Treville. He was most eager to hear the story behind that scar.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this third chapter for the entry to the Fete de Mousquetaires March challenge. I can't help it. This theme has really got me hooked! Please let me know what you think! Reviews are most welcome and appreciated! If you would like to participate, please go to the Musketeers Forum page titled Fete de Mousquetaires to learn more about the rules and how to enter.


	4. Chapter 4

Devil's Plaything

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Athos shows tremendous restraint and with the help of his brothers finds peace in idleness. This is an entry for the Fete de Mousquetaires March challenge, with the theme of "Idle Hands".

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Chapter Four: Divine Life

Out among the tree line, she tip toed carefully on bare feet; dodged and weaved lithely beneath low hanging branches – then bent low to push errant leaves aside. When she stood, dark hair fell about her face, and shoulders; then cascaded down her back. Bright streaks of sunlight cut through the canopy above her and cast a sheen that had her skin glowing and her eyes shining with mischief.

He breathed in a painful breath as she reached out her arms to beckon him forward with a warm laugh, her hand fisted with purple flowers; the white of her undergarments damp with blood. Her voice was so clear, and as he stood to join her, Porthos clamped a heavy hand to his shoulder, effectively pinning him back down to earth.

The big man melodramatically groaned and sat heavily beside him on the slight hill. "It is hot – yeah?" he bemoaned. With his coat already thrown to the ground, he removed his hat and flapped it widely before his face. Sweat trickled from his forehead; made tracks to his cheeks, neck and under his collar. He pulled sweat soaked fabric away from his chest and swore vociferously.

Athos turned from his wife to study his shaking hands, and then his miserably sweaty friend. He nodded his agreement and squeezed his hands together tight. When he searched for her among the trees – Anne was gone.

He rubbed at his forehead and felt the familiar tension creep from his shoulders – to his neck then to beat at his temples. As his wife called to him from the past, the invisible spirit of wine whispered in his ear devilish works for idle hands – in the hopes to steal away his pain, and then bring him trouble.

More than anything he wished with unguarded fever to rid himself of her – the memories she hammered at him of love, death and despair. However, his debt to her was enormous and beyond repayment. She had saved d'Artagnan's life - the boy who now rushed by him, throwing kindling to the ground in a hurried frenzied state – was alive because of her.

Intertwining his fingers – knuckles white with the force – he leaned forward and inwardly groaned. He was going to be sick. d'Artagnan stood stiff, still and looked his way – eyes wide with questions he could not answer. So he lowered his head and hid behind windblown hair, veiled eyes and a neutral expression. His blank face; haughty air perfected over time; was a fallback on detachment that worked to belay any conversation… every time.

He was determined that his anguish would not add to his young friend's already growing list of worries.

"I will go and water the horses", he announced to no one in particular and made to rise – escape d'Artagnan's anxious looks, but was interrupted with a firm response.

"Sit down Athos. It's already done. Haven't you noticed – camp is ready for the evening."

Athos settled back to the ground, searched the sky and observed that the sun no longer stood high; but it was still early yet. When he surveyed the camp, he saw that the pit was complete; kindling ready to light; the horses stood tethered, saddles removed stomping their hooves – content. Bedrolls were laid out, unfurled waiting for weary bodies to rest.

How long had he been sitting here? How had time moved by so swiftly without him? His answer was a soft laugh echoed about the woods. He scanned the trees and beyond to find her.

Aramis responded to his query as if he had spoken aloud. "You've been sitting in that very spot for quite some time; hours….maybe. I think this is the first sign of life we have seen from you since you dismounted."

Athos startled a little. He hadn't realized Aramis sat so close – his legs crossed; back leaned against a tree – pieces of his firearm laid out on a blanket, clean and ready to be put back together.

"As you can see" Porthos continued – shuffling a deck of cards deftly with large nimble fingers – "There is nothing left for us to do. d'Artagnan has done it all – leaving us idle and lazy."

"I for one applaud his excessive energy", Aramis laughed, "But I believe this flurry of activity is due to worry." He cocked an eyebrow – only slightly distracted with putting the pieces of his musket back together whole.

Athos frowned, peered across the pit and watched as d'Artagnan moved toward the horses with feed; his face indeed etched with concern.

Aramis continued, "He hasn't ceased moving since we stopped here, and you haven't quit tormenting yourself. I am surprised your hands are not raw from the wringing and that he has not collapsed from exhaustion."

Athos tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. Aramis sighed; snapped his weapon together in a practiced flourish and met his friend's gaze full on. "He worries for you Athos; and doesn't understand your moods and silence as we do."

Athos nodded slowly and rubbed absently at his aching knuckles while Anne strolled amongst the trees.

The three sat quietly for some moments. The only sounds about were of d'Artagnan cooing encouragement to the horses; the stream lapping softly to shore in the distance; and cards shifting seamlessly between Porthos' callused fingers. In his mind – Anne called to him, giggling through the breeze.

He ran tired fingers through his hair and let the threads of her drift away. "She hounds me", he finally admitted – rubbing his palms against the sides of his pants legs.

Porthos leaned close, and when their shoulders touched urged, "Who – your wife or the drink?"

Athos chuckled with no mirth and a hard glint to his gaze. "Both", he ground out between clenched teeth. "If I give into them – I am lost."

Aramis sighed with empathy, and squeezed his knee. "Then we won't let you give in. We'll find something to settle your mind; give you relief – and ease that one" nodding toward d'Artagnan, "into rest."

Athos pulled his knees in close, and shook his head in defeat. "I am abused brother, and my only relief is to loathe her – but for some reason I cannot. She has saved d'Artagnan. I am in her debt and oddly glad of it."

Aramis understood the sentiment. She had saved d'Artagnan's life; but now, it seemed, the very act of her mercy was to spin Athos out of control – something neither he, nor Porthos could abide.

As green eyes pierced his, the pain there stole his breath – but not his resolve. "You will see Athos. Peace is what you need today. And we shall find it." He stood then to his feet, reached for his weapon; the water skins and made for the rise. "I'll go and fill the skins", he called out over his shoulder – and disappeared from view.

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When he returned to camp, eager to share his find, Aramis took note that Pothos sat grumpily wiping his brow with his head scarf; and d'Artagnan with single minded purpose carefully fashioned a tripod for the pot to boil on. Athos was right where he had left him – staring out toward the trees, clasping his hands in a death grip – determined to keep himself from flying apart through sheer force of will.

He smiled to himself and moved swiftly toward his brothers; and dropped the skins full of water to the ground. Hands on hips, he addressed the somber trio. "Over this rise, I have found just what we need."

d'Artagnan frowned, met his merriment with a stiff back and bit his lip. "Just what do we need?" he asked, falling back on his heels to witness an overly cheerful Aramis grinning from ear to ear.

"We need respite my friend – to lie idle and be still. And that place is just this way", he announced – pointing back behind him.

d'Artagnan turned away – ready to lift the small pot, from his fashioned tripod; pleased with his ingenuity. "I think I'd rather fill the pot with water and ready some coffee for the meal. While you were gone, I put together a snare and soon we may have rabbit."

Aramis looked to Porthos for support – who only shrugged then inquired, resigned to the enthusiasm. "What is it you want to show us Aramis? Whatever it is; its close by I hope."

"Very close – just over this rise. Come on, let me show you."

Porthos nodded, stood wearily to his feet and pulled a compliant Athos up with him by his lapels. The man seemed utterly confused by the sudden activity and conversation; and allowed Porthos to drag him forward by the nape of his neck.

"Alright then", d'Artagnan sighed heavily; and with a hint of petulance, lifted the pot ready to follow. "Is there water near this respite?"

"Yes!" Aramis called behind him – "Come see!"

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d'Artagnan dropped the small pot in amazement. The scene before him was magnificent. The pond below – a blinding blue azure, was almost a perfect circle. The overhanging tree limbs were lush with leaves – dark green, and full of life. Wild flowers peppered the grass in hues of blue, white and yellow. Suddenly he was reminded of home – Lupiac rising up from his dreams to greet him.

How was this place so close by and he hadn't seen it? The pool was so inviting. The heat had been oppressive; his skin was hot – his clothes dusty – his mind fraught with worry. If he could just put aside all that needed to be done for just a moment…

Porthos laughed aloud and walked with measured step toward the pool of pristine water. It called to him with the promise of quenched thirst; a cool brow; and soothed feet. When he reached the edge, and dipped in his scarf, he sighed with the knowledge of coming relief.

"You have outdone yourself Aramis", he bellowed to his friend, pulled off his boots, socks then dipped his aching feet within the cool water and moaned with pleasure. Here was paradise, he thought; and pressed the wet cloth at his neck.

Aramis stood smiling cheekily as d'Artagnan raced by him at maximum speed – divesting himself bit by bit of his coat, shirt, weapons – hopping from foot to foot as he reached the water's edge of the pond to remove his boots, socks and pants – then dove head first into the waiting expanse – slight ripples following him beneath the smooth surface.

The veil of neutrality, stiff shoulders and trembling hands relaxed about Athos' countenance and he actually smiled wide – teeth showing; his whole face transformed – as d'Artagnan whooped with joy and disappeared beneath a splash of water – only to resurface moments later spewing a perfect arc of water from his mouth to the heavens above.

He laughed then, loud from his belly and descended to the grass. Lying on his back, he held tight to his sides, and watched as white billowing clouds traveled overhead to some faraway place; until he was left spent with rare elation.

d'Artagnan, happy to hear his friend delighted with life, floated to his back, and watched the clouds with him.

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As they all lay still beneath the setting sun, limbs heavy with the fatigue of the day, Aramis turned to his friends and smiled fondly. The goal of the day had been met. Peace was found, and life was divine.

d'Artagnan already lay asleep on his side – the thick weave of tall grass a soft welcome mattress that lured him quickly to a dreamless state hours ago. He breathed slowly and deep, with no furrow or crease at his brow – his worries, apparently left dissolved beneath the cool waters.

Aramis chucked lightly, amazed that the boy's hands twitched in repose – unable to remain idle, even in sleep.

Athos sprawled next to him – coat, boots, hat, socks – all lined up neatly to the side. Only his weapon's belt and sword glistened close by within arm's length – never out of sight or out of reach – much like d'Artagnan – whose steady breath tickled his arm just as wind rippled over water.

Aramis could see that for the moment, his friend's demons were set aside, like his coat – and hoped he would wait for at least another day before he placed their weight back across his shoulders.

Athos sat up then – savored the grass between his toes, the wind in his hair, the receding glow of the sun and his brothers all nearby, idle here beneath the swaying trees. And though his hands earlier in the day; had trembled and itched to drown him in drink or self-destruction – now only reveled in the feel of tall carpeted grass and the warmth of brotherhood that surrounded him.

"I see you are better!" Porthos called softly to him from his spot of earth by the pond – feet splashing gently to and fro.

Athos lifted his hands – then held them out strong, steady, and true.

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Thank you so much for reading. This is the last chapter for the entry to the Fete de Mousquetaires March challenge of 'Idle Hands'. I hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know what you think! Reviews are always welcome and very much appreciated! I want to take a moment to thank those of you who reviewed, but I could not respond to. Your comments were lovely, thank you.

If you would like to participate in the March Challenge, please go to the Musketeers Forum page titled Fete de Mousquetaires to learn more about the rules and how to enter.


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